


The Exorcism of Murdoc Niccals

by ghoullly



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Goretober, Homophobic Language, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 08:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12602196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoullly/pseuds/ghoullly
Summary: When he survived the Battle of Plastic Beach, Murdoc Niccals was warned that he should never set foot in the Black Cloud's city in Mexico again.He should have listened.





	The Exorcism of Murdoc Niccals

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is very graphic and bloody and pukey; this is the most explicit thing I've ever written, I think. I probably wouldn't read this if you don't have a strong stomach for vomit or gore. 
> 
> I'd also like to clarify--Murdoc loves Mexico!! The city that the Black Cloud is stationed in is the city that scares him; and of course, because he's Murdoc, he finds himself doing something stupid and winds up in the wrong place. Mexico is super pretty!! I don't want the beginning to sound like I'm trying to paint Mexico in a bad light because I'm not I promise D:
> 
> There are references to prayers in here that are directly cited; because my AP English-trained ass would be sick to my stomach if I didn't, there will be a link to the source where I got the prayer at the end of the fic.
> 
> Anyways, I hope these disclaimers are okay! I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Happy (late) Goretober!

He should have listened.

He shouldn’t have acted like he knew what he was doing, because he didn’t.

He shouldn’t have shoved a manicured finger in Russel’s face in the hotel room when he said it wouldn’t have been a good idea to go out in this city. He shouldn’t have had a screaming match (in front of Noodle and 2D, nonetheless) with the man when he brought up how he was wanted in this country, and how it was a risk to play here anyway even if it meant disappointing hundreds of thousands of fans, and how he shouldn’t leave to go _any_ where at _any_ time--if he absolutely had to, he shouldn’t be without a disguise of some sort because he would be ripped right off the street and murdered for having the balls to ever show his face in this country ever again.

But he didn’t listen.

Stood on the tips of his toes, because even his beloved Cuban heels failed him when it came to Russel’s height, and screamed in his face so loud that his throat went raw and his voice turned raspier than usual. How he always treated him like a child when _he_ was the oldest and still had 9 years above him, how he always acted like he couldn’t protect himself when _he_ was the one who had literally been to Hell and back, who had murdered a man for messing with his family, who had busted out of prison plenty of times before--and one of those times was here, in this country, and if Russel thought even for a second that he was fucking _afraid_ of _anyone,_ well.

That just meant he didn’t have the same sort of experience that he did, didn’t it?

Noodle practically threw herself in between them when she saw Russel raise his fist and Murdoc dig his claws into his palm in defiance as he stood his ground. Yelled at them both to calm down because both were in the wrong--Russel shouldn’t try to control him and he should really be a lot more careful here--and that it was late. They had a concert that night and he was outvoted 3-1 when it came to skipping their typical post-concert bar hop and holing up in the hotel for the night. That involved drawing every single one of the blinds, never raising their voices above a whisper, and going to bed while the night was young so they could get out of there as early as possible.

Murdoc broke all three of those rules at the same time.

Ripped the blinds open to prove that nobody was out there. Screamed at Russel for a solid two minutes while he screamed back like they were a married couple with a relationship on the verge of self-destruction. Shoved his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket and stormed out of the safety of their room while grumbling obscenities to himself. Slammed the door so hard that it left a crack in the frame, sealing a barrier between him and his family, leaving 2D shaking on the bed with his knees pulled to his chest as he dissociated, choking on an anxiety attack bubbling in his throat. His iPad was abandoned next to him; he wasn’t in the mood to produce Mexico’s section of the tour diary anymore. Noodle tried to calm Russel down in front of the bathroom mirror, but it didn’t really work, the man’s shoulders shaking with fury despite all of her attempts. Stylo’s engine roared to life outside and just like that he was gone, out into the night, recognizable as ever and entirely vulnerable.

He should have fucking listened.

Streetlights bathed the car in pulsating stripes of orange as he sped under them, white knuckled around her steering wheel and his jaw tight in defiance. He just drove like that for a while; radio off, weaving through the city streets until he was in the outskirts, continuously passing clubs and bars and things that he grew more lustful for as the minutes ticked by.

Mexico was beautiful--he had fallen in love with it years and years ago. The people there were some of the friendliest he’d ever met. They’d taken him under his wing when he had moved away here when Gorillaz had taken a hiatus that first time, a vagabond possibly soul-searching to feel closer with his absent mother, choosing to explore the country her father hailed from. (...But also visit a few brothels on the way, because fuck it.)

He’d lived with large families with children that possessed such a familiar sense of energeticness and innocence, it made him miss his little girl like mad.

Yet he’d wronged the wrong people when he was away from the safety of the families’ houses, making bargains he knew he wouldn’t keep his end of.

He’d lived with fragile old women who would only ask for him to clean up after himself in exchange for staying with them, treating him like a son.

Yet he’d chosen to get in with the wrong crowd--just like he had back home in Britain--and got himself into scary situations; it was miraculous he had escaped with his life.

He’d lived with young couples and their newborn babies, an odd emotion washing over him every time he’d gotten to hold one, almost as if he were surprised that someone would entrust something so precious into his corrupted arms.

Yet there he was now, playing Russian roulette with the Grim Reaper, setting foot in the very city that he had met that underground network of pirates in, knowing very well that they were probably out tonight.

Knowing very well that they were actively looking for him, knowing Gorillaz had performed that night.

Knowing very well that the battle at Plastic Beach hadn’t killed them all, but had done enough damage to perpetually piss them off past the point of no return. They’d definitely bought weapons that worked by now, and each bullet and blade had his name engraved.

He hummed, thinking about the couples he’d lived with again to distract himself. His old heart was beginning to regret never falling in love. He’d never admit it, but every once and awhile, he remembered how happy Stu and Paula had been, how they’d always laugh at each other’s little quirks and jokes and how they’d genuinely enjoyed each other’s company, kissing each other’s cheeks and cuddling on the studio couches and actually knowing what _happiness_ felt like. And he had just waltzed in and ruined it, just to see if he could, talking her into a quickie in the bathrooms. Clear as day, he could still visualize the look of horror and guilt on her face when Russel hauled her out by the arm, tears streaking down her cheeks as he dragged her to 2D. She’d realized the magnitude of what she had done a second too late.

He couldn’t think about it too much, because when he did, guilt wrapped its dirty hands around his throat and pressed against his sternum, catching on his Adam’s apple like starch. So he drowned it in alcohol until it dissolved.

Well, it was a lie to say he’d never fallen in love before. Because he had. He was twelve and kissed a boy out back behind the dumpsters of the school, but Tony Chopper had caught them and told the entire student body that Murdoc Alphonce Niccals was a cocksucking faggot who would kiss anyone if you gave him 10 shillings, but would put his mouth anywhere you wanted if you gave him a pound instead. This had earned him even harsher bullying than he was used to, and had gotten ‘faggot’ and ‘poof’ and ‘fairy’ and every term they could throw at him sprayed bright red on the sides of his house. His father had beaten him until his skin was more purple than brown after he had gotten his terrified son to admit that those words had a root. He’d go to leave for school with Hannibal and they’d find flaming bags of dog shit on their doormat, or he’d be sneaking out of his room to try and eat what food his dad had denied him, careful to wear socks and crawl on the sides of the hallways with his body low to the floor, climbing over furniture to mix up the sound of his steps, only to have a handful of rocks pitched through the living room window when he got to the cupboards, shattering the glass into thousands of pieces and blowing his cover. The blond, big-eyed boy he had kissed had conveniently transferred to Liverpool a month after this happened, but the Niccals’ were poor and couldn’t afford to have Murdoc shipped off to a nicer school, so he had to stick around and learn how to grow a thicker skin until it was slowly forgotten about.

After that, he had definitely learned to ignore any signs of his heart skipping against his ribs when he was around someone he found particularly pretty or interesting.

And thus began his tirade of constant one-night stands, gaining his worldwide reputation as a womanizer that had gotten him plenty of tabloid stories and the occasional grainy cover page of him in a hotel along with some bird who he could never remember the name of. It was considered an honor if you got between the sheets with a man as choosy with his women as he was--to be honest, he never really was; none of them particularly interested him, but he had to keep the act up because he loved the image the media had painted of him. Women fawned over him and melted if he flicked his tongue at them from behind his bass during a concert. It never meant anything. In his chest was nothing more than a void where a heart should have been; it was ripped from his ribs when he was young and was never put back.

He never let himself get caught when he found himself lusting after men for the same exact reason he swallowed his bisexuality after being beaten and ridiculed and shamed all those years ago--he didn’t want to deal with the uproar, especially as a celebrity. So he’d only occasionally slip into gay bars, incognito under a hoodie or bandana or whatever he needed to hide himself, making sure he only wound up kissing and fooling around with men who were just as scared as he was. He wouldn’t tell their secret and they wouldn’t tell his, and in the mornings he’d slip out into the cold like a phantom and leave his partner to wonder if he had ever been there at all. He always felt dirty whenever he did that and came home to the others, changing and cleaning himself up enough just in time for them to come downstairs and find him at the kitchen table, spiking his tea with rum or vodka or whatever alcohol he was feeling that morning, and it was as if nothing had ever happened.

But over time, he grew tired of it. He was over 50 now, and his hair was peppering too fast for him to be able to pluck the grey ones out quickly enough, and crow’s feet began to nestle in the corners of his eyes despite the fact that he hardly ever smiled. His joints ached before it rained and wrinkles began to finally slowly surface and _worst_ of _all_ , Gorillaz fans began to joke about his age, depicting him as the old man of the band. Which he was. But he really didn’t want to come to terms with that.

His heart pounded in his chest as he had loosened his grip on Stylo’s wheel, his heels lifting a bit off the accelerator.

Times had changed. It was still a touchy subject, but there was much less of a chance that you would have your windows broken or house spray painted or be forcefully shoved onto your knees by one bully and face shoved into their crotch by another in the form of some cruel joke. Noodle was openly lesbian (and had been on a handful of dates with a few different girls; all nice, Murdoc thought) and Russel wasn’t as vocal about it, but was openly gay (Murdoc was the first one to learn that Del was more than a best friend way back in 2003; he cried on his shoulder in Kong’s graveyard that night and Murdoc decided to be the one to distract him whenever he got particularly upset about Del, because he _got_ it).

Yes, he was bisexual; women were attractive to him and they found him the same way.

His foot had shifted over to the brake, pressing gently as angry tears pricked his eyes, remembering the pain he had gone through for the last four decades of his life.

Women were nice, but he could never see himself committing in a relationship with one. Men, however...

A boyfriend would be really nice. Maybe even a husband if they really clicked.

God, he shouldn’t have fucking let himself get hysterical.

If he had just listened to Russel and stayed home instead of allowing himself to get all emotional in the hotel room, he would have never felt himself shift from furious to upset, and would have never decided to go into the club that he did.

But he did.

He had allowed himself--undisguised and vulnerable with emotion--to sit down at a bar in an unfamiliar club in a beautiful country that was especially (and understandably) hostile to him because of the disrespect he had shown it, and allowed himself to toss back glasses of malt liquor earlier into the night, then eventually tequila as the minute hand made its rounds.

He had let a particularly handsome man sit uncomfortably close to him, ribs touching and breath on his neck, and buy him a drink.

He had ignored the bells in his brain when he felt that he recognized him in some way; his true self clawed away in alarm at the thick layer of blissful ignorance his drunk state had managed to create, but couldn’t break the surface.

He had allowed himself to get lost in beautifully hazel eyes and felt his heart tick when their hands slid together and he felt callouses on palms that were just like his. He laughed, oblivious to anything else but the gorgeous man in front of him, placing his head on his shoulder and lacing his green hands through his hair and shedding his leather jacket at some point. They’d kissed a handful of times; he was pretty sure, anyway. His skin would feather with adoration when the man would brush his fingers against his cheek, or touch his arm, or splay his hand out on his thigh.

But worst of all, he had _trusted_ that man when he leant close to his ear and whispered that in one of the back rooms, there was a party. Which there was. And at that party, there were drugs. Which there were.

He hadn’t done anything other than weed after Noodle had arrived. He had always joked that he managed to overcome his addiction to speed because he “had a baby--and this baby was born at age seven in a Fedex box”. She was the absolute light of his life, if he cared to admit; she had made him realize that there were more important things to fuss over than a pipe. But although he had tried his hardest at first, he had relapsed, keeping it a secret from all of them; things finally climaxed when she had found him late one night after he had crashed, effectively scaring the shit out of all four of them and leading him to kick it for good. It had been hard, but he had done it.

But he fell right into that trap, letting himself be ushered back and submerged into a chex mix party. The bowl full of colorful little pills reminded him of 2D way, way back in the sober state of his mind. It wasn’t speed, no, but they were still drugs.

Drugs he had been too drunk to refuse.

Drugs he had been too drunk to realize nobody else was taking.

Drugs he had been too drunk to note they were klonopins, xannies, ketelars, rohypnols, ambiens.

And there he was now--dazed and confused, body bound with chains to a cold metal table, lungs heavy and vision tunneled. He had no memory of ever getting here, but from what he could see, he was shoved away in some sort of warehouse, dusty sheets pulled over cars and weapons placed on a smaller table next to him. Switchblades, razors, revolvers. A metal cross also sat there among the bunch. Squinting harder and trying to ignore his spinning head, he also found a Bible, bowls full of salt and water, rosaries, and a few other things obscured by the array of items.

He smacked his head back against the table, feeling his breath hitch and body tremble, tears welling his mismatched eyes.

He was going to die here.

Whoever had kidnapped him like this was going to kill him.

He should have listened.

His mind slowly began to regain itself from the high and intoxication, and when he started to assess how horrible his life truly had been, those tears fell harder and made his green cheeks burn, body racking with sobs. He howled in fear and pain and regret on that table, chains rattling against the metal. Snot and tears caught in his mouth, but he was too terrified to care. He wasn’t himself just yet; he was still impaired, yet was sober enough to know that he was too weak to do anything. He would have his heart carved out and pulled from his chest right in front of his eyes and he would have to take it.

He sobbed for what seemed like hours. His jacket was nowhere to be found, and his clothes were uncomfortably grungy, leaving him to marinate in last night’s sweat and dirt and oil. A vein pounded harshly within his temple and his stomach twisted with overload. Speaking of, he now had no idea where Stylo was. There was no way in Hell that this was anywhere close to that dingy old club, and there was no way in Hell that they had driven her here, so not only was he without an escape route but he was now robbed of his favorite car, impressively modified beyond what anybody else on earth was capable of doing. She was gone with the self of the day, gone, gone...

He winced, shaking his head roughly and sniffling, trying to ignore the wet patch on his lips from where snot had been continuously running down his face. He was still pretty drunk. He couldn’t think straight. He needed to collect himself.

But he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, his mind always wandered someplace else when he attempted to think of a way to bust out of the chains, to tip over the table, to do _anything,_ but every single time he would daydream about last night’s concert, feeling the hot stage lights burning his skin.

He heard something echo deep within the warehouse that made his skin prick with bumps. Honing in more, he realized he was hearing footsteps, and began to cry again, trembling like a leaf as he tried to pull his hands away from his sides with no luck.

“Please,” he begged in Spanish, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing he wouldn’t have to look his captor in the face once they arrived, “Please don’t do this.”

He heard them talking amongst themselves--he heard his name among them as well, realizing there was way more than one--and sobbed harder, his bangs stinging his eyes.

“Let me go, please, I’m sorry...”

They grew closer.

“I don’t understand...”

Someone slid a metal bar over a door.

“I don’t want to die.”

One hand shoved itself against his forehead, making him smack his skull against the table and pinning him there, and another clamped itself over his mouth and nose, blocking any airflow he had. His eyes sprung open, wild in terror, and saw a handful of amused faces through the film over his eyes.

He had met them before the party, of course he had. He’d sold faulty weapons to them over a decade ago, and he’d sworn to kill them all when they shot Noodle down, and he battled them in jets at Plastic Beach.

This was what remained of the Black Cloud. They had finally found him.

He tried to scream, but it was muffled by the calloused palm he had held in his the night before.

“ _The_ Murdoc Niccals, crying like a little bitch?” One of them laughed and made his stomach flip, averting his eyes but shaking anyway. “Are you sure we got the right one?”

The man holding his face down grunted. “Positive. This fucker’s got the same scars and skin tone.” He didn’t see them, but he felt a hand glide down his forearms, tracing over the handfuls of deep scars there. He overheated in humiliation, feeling almost violated. He was usually very well at concealing that he hurt himself, typically choosing to do this on his thighs, but when he was too upset to care, he chose to slash away at his wrists with the razor he hung around his neck that bore his name. Only 2D knew that he did this, and when he got particularly bad, he would wear it instead to keep it out of Murdoc’s reach.

Murdoc tried to take in air, but the hand was too tight; he gasped under the blockage, tears still steadily streaming and soaking their skin.

“Let him breathe. This isn’t going to do us any good if he’s dead.”

The man he had been so attracted to the night before hesitantly lifted his hand, allowing the green-skinned bassist to breathe; he gulped in air like he had never tasted it, spasming in hysteria, legs twitching and arms shaking. The one he remembered as their leader leant over him, smirking at the mess Murdoc had dissolved into.

“You always carried yourself much differently... who’s a hardass now?” he spat, Murdoc squeezing his eyes shut as he hyperventilated. He couldn’t bring himself to open them.

“What do you want from me?” he tried to assert, but it came out in a choke, a film coating his tongue from all of the crying. He beat himself up for even asking. He knew exactly what they wanted; they wanted him dead.

They all shifted, reaching over onto the table and fussing with the things on its surface. He turned his head to watch but it was ripped back into place with a rough hand; a spiral of pain shot through his head and he hiccuped, hoping listening hard enough would reveal what they had.

It really wasn’t necessary, though; they hovered over him with the cross and the salt, the hazel-eyed man armed with the blade.

“”We’ve all discussed this, and we feel as if your... _misdemeanors_ are rooted in something a bit more than an unfortunate childhood.” The one with the cross grinned, the metal glinting off of the dim overhead light. “You don’t have God in your soul, but rather someone much more sinister, and we feel as if an exorcism is in order--”

They were cut off by nasal cackling, Murdoc’s muscles relaxing on the table as he shed tears of relief instead. He laughed so hard he was wheezing with barely enough room for breath between howls of entertainment. He felt like an idiot for begging for them to let him go.

“Really...? That’s it? That’s all I’m here for?” He scoffed with a chuckle, rolling his eyes and smiling wide. “Well, then. Exorcise me. Chop chop. We’ve all got more important places to be, you see, so if you could just do your little performance, we can all part ways.”

A handful of men hurriedly grabbed the other holy items, the rest grabbing the weapons. The leader donned the cross, examining it.

“You’re not human.”

Murdoc scrunched his nose and spoke with the tip of his tongue, mocking them. _“~You’re not human.~”_

“You’re the devil.”

_“~You’re the devil.~”_

“A lamb of God who strayed from His light... you’ve become much more powerful over the years since we’ve last met--”

“--Hey, thanks, mate!” Murdoc felt like he had the upper hand again, idly clenching his fists against his side so his muscles would flex. “That’s the result of a little thing I like to call ‘ _exercise and living in a state of constant fear’_. You should try it sometime! Really keeps you motivated, yeah.”

The leader stepped forward, towering over Murdoc with the cross in his palm, his head blocking the overhead light.

“Perhaps your behavior is the result of the demon itself. Maybe you’re not you, but... _it_ instead.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” Murdoc voiced, “But go ahead. I’ll play along with your little game. ‘ _Hey, what’s up, it’s me, Satan.’_ See? I’m good. Do you want me to cough up pea soup too? Because I haven’t eaten anything of the sort. But I can try my best.”

“So I now read the Rites.”

“Are you even a priest?” The bassist asked, fully relaxed and just laying there as if he were at home, the chains around his body nearly phantom. “Can’t only priests say those? Tsk, tsk. Breaking the rules already.”

“Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel...” He stepped closer until his hips were pressing against the cold metal edge of the table.

“In the Name of the Father...” He brandished the cross in his palm. Murdoc hissed mockingly before breaking out into laughter, tongue flitting between his teeth.

“And of the Son...” The Black Cloud crowded him, tightening their grips on his limbs. The one holding his head slid his hand back through his greasy black hair, wringing their fingers there instead. Murdoc felt cool air brush across his forehead, momentarily self conscious of his thick eyebrows that now saw the light.

“...And of the Holy Ghost.” The room suddenly grew eerily still, and for reasons he hadn’t quite known yet, Murdoc’s bones turned to ice and his heart plummeted through the floor. Time was at a standstill. The smile fell right off his face.

The leader brought the cross to the center of Murdoc’s forehead, body blocking nearly all light and making his view go dark.

“Amen.” He shoved his thumb to the center of the cross, pressing it deep into Murdoc’s skin.

And Murdoc _screamed._

His spine arched and his claws dug into his skin and his toes curled, vocal cords giving out after a minute, screams rattling his lungs. The cross burned into his forehead as if it were on fire; he could smell cooked flesh and saw wisps of smoke sizzle between his eyebrows. The Cloud threw themselves down, struggling to keep him in place as he howled in pain, wrenching against the chains and the dozens of hands holding him there.

After cruelly enjoying his agony for a minute, the leader drew the cross back, clutching it in his hand. Murdoc still screeched, tears spilling freely down his cheeks, clenching his teeth and breathing heavily to try and swallow the pain.

“What the fuck,” he heaved, sweat sticking the fabric of his shirt to his skin, “What the fuck?”

“And so we begin the exorcism,” the leader simply stated, the members letting go of Murdoc and stepping back, the green-skinned man groaning.

The room was suddenly spinning and his clothes were too tight and he wished he could take them off.

“-- _Fuck,”_ Murdoc felt his throat tighten and begin to close. His sense of security had just dissipated instantly and now he knew _for sure_ that he was going to die here. He just wanted to hide in his bandmates’ arms. He began to sob again and felt his face distort in fear. “Please, anything but this. I’ll do anything. You can’t do this to me. Oh, sweet Satan, save me, please...”

The Black Cloud exchanged glances before the leader spoke up, breaking his ‘fatherly’ demeanour.

“Well. You’ll do anything?”

Murdoc grunted in struggle, the alcohol and pills fogging over his brain again, skin raw against the chains. His red eye peered out at them, foggy with impairment and tears. “I don’t want to die, I just want to be back home, please, please...”

They all snickered disgustingly, and before they even opened their mouths, Murdoc felt the taste in his mouth immediately go sour.

“Then give us the girl,” one of them laughed sickeningly, and they jeered revoltingly with one another, making crude remarks that made Murdoc’s blood go cold.

His fists clenched and unclenched, eventually resting next to his thighs. His eyes fluttered shut in deep thought, and he finally succumbed and submitted, easing the Cloud enough for the one to let go of his head, leaving him lay still on the table. He inhaled deeply and a tear slid down his cheek, shakily mumbling something too quiet for them to hear.

“...What?” The hazel-eyed one asked.

Murdoc’s face contorted in some sort of unreadable emotion, chest spasming as he held down sobs, and he repeated himself. He was still inaudible.

Hazel crossed his arms, hesitation in his body language. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“Get closer, pussy. He’s chained down; he’s not going to do anything.” One of the men hissed, leading Hazel to flinch and step forward, looking down at the man pinned to the table. He frowned, leaning in close to Murdoc’s face, his eyes still closed. He was inches away from his face and he still wasn’t saying anything, so he was just about to stand upright again and see what else he could try to get him to talk.

And so Murdoc spat the thickest wad of phlegm he was able to conjure directly into his eye, causing Hazel to recoil and yelp out in surprise, the Cloud snapping back into place and slamming the Satanist’s head back against the table. Murdoc reopened his eyes, still trembling in fear, but his voice gained a bit more strength, eyebrows pulled close together. The cross-shaped wound in his forehead nearly glowed with hysteria. Terrified or not, _nobody_ talked about his little girl like that.

“If you bloody fucking cunts ever-- _ever_ \--lay so much as a _finger_ on my daughter again, I promise that my possessed ass will rise from Hell to slaughter each and every one of you.” This was the calmest his voice had been since he had woken up, and he made a point to make eye contact with every single man in his view, satisfaction striking his heart when he saw Hazel rubbing his now-bloodshot eye, Murdoc’s saliva disgustingly dripping down his face. “I will tear you apart limb by limb, fucking annihilate you, and nobody will be able to identify your bodies. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.”

The hand on his forehead shoved down as hard as it could, sending splintering pain spidering across his skull in the shape of the cross, and another reached out and ripped at his cheeks, gripping them so hard he could feel them instantly bruising. A third hand plunged into his mouth, and before he could bite down on them, they grabbed hold of his tongue and tore it out between his lips, clenching it tight. He saw his serpent tongue under his nose, trying desperately to wrench it free, and saw the cold flash of metal of the switchblade as it was shoved against the muscle. He screamed in pain as loud as his throat allowed him when it barely sliced into the side, warm blood spilling over the edge and coloring the metal bright red. White-hot pain shot across his tongue. He tasted the copper and tears poured again, the leader getting so close to his face that he could smell his sour breath.

“We ought to sever this fucking tongue of yours so you can never run your mouth again,” he pressed the blade deeper, Murdoc’s heart stopping in fear as he howled and screamed and cried, eyes wide in terror. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”

 _“Fuck--please!”_ Murdoc screeched to the best of his ability, “ _Please, oh fuck, please don’t do this to me--!”_

“Then allow us to save you.” He bluntly said, crossing his arms and allowing his goons to get back into position. Murdoc’s skull smacked against the table as he let it fall, quietly crying in fear as he felt his tongue swell in his mouth.

He felt horribly ugly with his face twisted as he silently cried, listening to him rattle off some prayer. He wasn’t possessed. This was just how he was. He sold his soul, sure, but there was no possession or anything that had happened.

But that cross _burned_ him. It had left that mark and that would be there forever and he was branded by Christ when he was a child of Satan. They were fucking up his deal.

He felt vulnerable. He was going to die here.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven.” The leader spoke the Lord’s Prayer as if he wasn’t a man of sin himself; he had wanted those weapons to kill.

“Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us...” He had wanted those weapons to steal.

“...and lead us not into temptation,” He had wanted those weapons more than Murdoc had.

“...But deliver us from evil.”

And that made him more evil than he was.

But he was the one hiding behind a crucifix, leaving Murdoc to atone for both of their sins through this suffering.

Murdoc began to sob hard, skin ice cold from where the sweat had started to cool in the air. He scratched at the seams of his jeans with his claws to try and calm himself, but it did little to nothing.

The priest finished the prayer, slipping the cross in a shirt pocket and grabbing the salt in its place, pinching some between his fingers.

“Depart, transgressor!” He threw the salt at Murdoc’s face, the bassist squeezing his eyes shut and sputtering, catching some in his mouth.

“Stop!” Murdoc lisped, his tongue pulsing. It wasn’t as hot as the cross was, but it still felt like ashes from hot coals spraying across his skin, tiny flames boring holes through his flesh. The priest didn’t budge, instead preparing to fling more.

“Depart seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent!” The Cloud tightened their grip when Murdoc wrenched against them in recoil, salt catching in his eyes and nose and mouth.

“Give place, abominable creature!” As the leader began throwing more blessed salt into his face so hard it was stinging, Murdoc felt his skin start to inflame and bubble. He hiccuped, wincing at the sudden flare of pain; his tongue was already beginning to numb, on the other hand.

“Give way, you monster!” More salt. Murdoc choked.

“Give way to Him! Give way to Christ!” The last of the salt was pressed against the priest’s thumbpad, and he reached forward, shoving it hard in the space between Murdoc’s eyes. He screamed again, starting to feel his body trying to go under.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cried, tears warm and staining his cheeks, “Fuck, Satan, please stop, I’m in so much pain, I’m sorry for all those years ago. I really am!” He let out a growl of agony, bowing his spine again as the priest pushed harder, digging the crescent of his nail into Murdoc’s sickly, irritated skin.

“ _FFFFFuck! Fucking Hell! Please!”_ He clenched his fists and strained his muscles, shoving his chest up to try and break the chains. But the Cloud wasn’t having that, a few shifting their spots so they could restrain him better; the other half drew their guns-- _working_ ones--and aimed them at Murdoc’s head. He lowered his body, breathing heavily, shaky.

“I’m literally begging you, man, please,” the bassist wept, “Please let me go. I won’t set foot here ever again. This isn’t an exorcism, this is torture.”

“In the name of God, I command you, demon--tell me your name!” The leader dug his nail even further, drawing blood this time. Murdoc’s blood collected around the keratin before beginning to run down the bridge of his crooked nose.

“I’m not a demon!” Murdoc insisted, his words stiff anymore from the amount of space his tongue was taking up in his mouth. He spit to clear his mouth of coppery blood, the wound still spilling. It ran down his chin and made his skin sticky.

“In the name of God, I command you, demon--tell me your name!” The man repeated, and Murdoc could hear one of the men shuffling with something on the table. Despite all the odds against him, Murdoc still stood his ground, soaking the leader’s hands with his tears; demons probably wouldn’t sob like a baby, which meant that he _had_ to be human.

He hated squirming and crying and begging, but that was what it was coming to. Murdoc had never been in such a situation in his life; his death was on the horizon. He’d never get to hear the annoying sounds 2D’s keyboard or Noodle’s Gameboy or Russel’s cooking shows ever again. The last thing he’d said to all three of them was venomous, spat in their faces because he was pissed off that they were looking out for him. He had no idea what time it was because no light had gotten through the warehouse windows, but he assumed that they probably realized he was missing by now. Maybe they were searching for him. Maybe they were expecting that he was just being himself and would reappear in a couple days, or in a couple months, or in a couple years.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

His body was going to fall cold right here on this table. Heart carved out in the name of God--a demon sent back to Heaven, hallelujah!

He wasn’t possessed. He wasn’t possessed.

There was no way to convince the Black Cloud this.

He stared directly above him, eyes locking on a ceiling beam. He felt something rumble deep within his chest and fear struck his heart like a hammer.

There was no way to figure out which party needed convincing the most.

The priest demanded identification while Murdoc continued to scream at the top of his lungs; not necessarily in pain anymore, but rather out of the lack of ideas on what to do. His teeth were stained with blood from his tongue and his breath smelled of copper. A few men returned to his side and before he could acknowledge them, he felt his cheeks crushed under strong fingers, jaw wrenched back to the point where it was nearly closed. They held it in place and he whipped his head from side to side, trying to shake them and the priest, who finally unearthed his nail from the green skin. The frantic movements of his head misled the blood drip, detouring and going down his cheek instead. He was too busy trying to escape the hand clenching his jaw--with another now on the opposite side--to see that the leader had a jug of something in his fist.

He stepped closer, pressing the cusp of the jug against Murdoc’s lips; he couldn’t escape it no matter how far back he tried to contract his neck. Clamping his teeth shut, he braced himself. He was trapped.

The priest tipped it forwards, a rush of ammonia flooding past his teeth.

Murdoc sputtered in panic, not expecting it, forced to swallow it so he didn’t drown. The leader didn’t let up, leaving it tipped and splashing into his mouth. Murdoc’s lungs were quickly squeezed empty of all air as he struggled to chug the chemical. Pain like he had never experienced licked at the roof of his mouth and the undersides of his tongue, his heart skipping in fear as he fought against their grip in a panic. The ammonia set his esophagus ablaze; it felt as if a hole was being burned right through his throat.

The priest finally eased off, half the bottle gone when he held it upright. Murdoc gulped in air, the oxygen not cooperating with the chemicals coating his insides and intensifying the flame. Nausea bubbled quickly in his stomach, sloshing against the lining and rising dangerously high. A gurgle echoed from the bottom of his throat.

He went pallid and felt his stomach clench. His gullet convulsed, and they must have noticed too, because the two hands crushing his jaw retracted at the same time, giving him space. One final gag was all he needed before he began to vomit, burning his nose as he threw up clear, murky liquid all over his front. No attempt of hostility was made to grab him a bucket or wastebasket or anything; instead they stood and watched as he puked, a hand shoved in his hair to push his chin against his sternum so he didn’t choke. His body rejected the ammonia as quickly as he had been forced to drink it, weakening his muscles as he trembled in fear. He sputtered, a few more pumps of liquid making it up his throat before he finally had a chance to catch his breath.

Just when they thought he was done, his belly flexed and he started back up again, hysteria and hangover and fear signalling to his brain to make sure that his stomach was entirely emptied. He kept going until he was only spitting up foam, all of it laced with blood as his tongue continued to bleed and the inner linings of his stomach dealt with the ammonia as well as the previous night’s overdose. He cried weakly, spitting to clean out his mouth, thick saliva dribbling down his chin with streaks of blood and vomit. His torso was entirely covered with the clear liquid and foam, the room now quickly beginning to smell sour. Murdoc’s back arched and flattened while he wheezed for air, eyes nearly bulging out of his head. He groaned and gurgled again, laying his head back and starting to hyperventilate as even his body began to go into fight or flight mode.

He was unable to do either, which heightened its anxiety even more.

 _“I can see you, demon! Don’t hide from me!”_ The leader’s voice was booming now, Murdoc’s vision going triple and causing his head to spin. Nothing but a moan was what the priest got as a response; the tortured man’s torso was slick and shiny and wet, glinting in the light as he thrashed in shock. The Black Cloud loosened their grips, watching Murdoc gasp for air like a fish out of water. The priest rushed to grab the Bible, clutching it in his hands with the cross, hovering over the frantic man; the chains rattled loudly.

 _“Reveal yourself!”_ He yelled over the metal, trying to stare into the depths of the red eye, only for Murdoc to somehow catch on in the middle of his fit and squeeze it shut. The leader ordered his men to draw their weapons again, the shell of a man beginning to crack. The cross-shaped burn singed pink into the green skin watched over the Cloud like an angel; it didn’t matter that it was on the forehead of a victim of Satan. It trembled with the man that bore it.

 _“Tell me your name!”_ He cried again, the red eye still squeezed shut for him and Murdoc spitting a little more to drain his mouth. It hurt too much to swallow.

“Fuckin’ lay off already!” Murdoc rasped, glaring up at him and not breaking eye contact. His gaze was intense and made the leader feel vulnerable--but here they were. Over a decade’s worth of a chase and they finally had Faust at their fingertips. Mephistopheles had been in an odd form when the three of their paths crossed; almost as if he were disguised as a plague doctor. He was just as unhappy with Murdoc as the Cloud was. The priest had pondered how the bastard had managed to escape both of them, but somehow he did it.

That ended today.

He could glare and spit and scream all he wanted; nothing was going to convince the Black Cloud to let him go.

 _“Face me!”_ demanded the priest.

Murdoc’s eyes rolled in the back of his head, groaning and moaning and gurgling from the bottom of his throat.

Everyone’s heart skipped a beat and they all unknowingly stepped closer, tightening their grips on whatever they were holding. Those with their hands on Murdoc were suddenly very conscious of how clammy his skin was, goosebumps prickling all the way up his muscular arms.

_“Come on, demon! Show yourself to me!”_

Murdoc stiffened, body quaking as foam dribbled down his lips. His eyes rolled forward again and darted around frantically. They looked terrified. The room reeked of sweat and ammonia and blood. The leader took his hand and held it against Murdoc’s forehead, feeling the sticky, raw skin of the burn under his palm. He watched closely at the red eye--satisfied that Murdoc had seemingly forgotten about it--and found his voice, trembling at the intensity of the scene.

_“You cannot hide any longer!”_

The Cloud watched closely as Murdoc wrestled against their grips, fear escaping his face and replacing it with something much worse--nothing inhuman, however. His jaw tightened and his eyebrows pinched and he bit his tongue so hard on accident that it began to bleed again. Rage flowed through his veins like it belonged there.

As loud as he could, Murdoc let out a guttural roar of frustration and anger and hysteria, unable to even comprehend that he was in this situation right now, chained to a table like a dog and mocked like this. Goons threw themselves against his bones, crushing them and making Murdoc feel as if they were going to snap into tiny pieces, but he didn’t care. He bore his teeth like the animal they wanted him to be and spat, wrestling against the constraints.

 _“Fuck you!”_ He growled, nearly foaming at the mouth from dehydration, _“You’re just as bad as I am, fucker! Just kill me, pussy! Fuckin’ blow a hole through my head! Slash my throat! I don’t care! This is fucking ridiculous!”_

 _“There you are!”_ The leader exclaimed, brandishing the Bible, _“Identify yourself!”_

 _“I’m not a fucking demon!”_ Murdoc raged, snapping his teeth at the hands of the men closest to him, making them dart back and aim their guns in defense. _“Fuck you and fuck your God! Just kill me already! Put me out of my fuckin’ misery!”_

 _“I command you! Tell me your name!”_ The priest drew closer, wielding that damn Bible like a weapon, the Cloud clicking the safety off of their weapons as Murdoc’s thrashing grew more violent, right arm beginning to slip up under the chain. His claws dug into his side, scraping deep gashes into his flesh in hysteria, beautiful blood spilling by his own hand.

 _“Do me a favor and do what I couldn’t and_ shoot me _already!”_ he begged, claws only gently scratching at his flesh now, content with feeling the fluid under his fingers. His palm became coated in blood very quickly, the table pooling. _“There’s nothing to tell you! Tear me apart or I’ll do it myself!”_

The leader drove the Bible into the center of Murdoc’s heaving chest, nearly slipping his aim from the vomit. The hardest arch his spine had made yet bowed Murdoc off of the table as he roared in pain, foam splattering around his mouth and his body seizing in agony from contact with the Holy Book.

_“You cannot hide from God! Reveal your name!”_

Murdoc let out a growl that faded into a blood-curdling scream, trying to do everything in his power to get the Bible away from him. His chest quivered and he drooled everywhere. He coughed hard and splattered the priest’s face with blood.

The voice that came out of his throat only remotely sounded like his own; it was gravellier, deeper, and spoke with venom dripping from its words.

_“Beelzebub!”_

The Black Cloud froze, hearts turned to ice and bloodstreams gone cold. Their eyes darted around to look at each other in disbelief, unsure of what the fuck to do, but they were reminded as to why their leader was their leader when he didn’t even bat an eye. They decided to go along with it, hanging onto the demon’s limbs and steadying their grip on their weapons. The air was ten times tenser and their internal clocks began ticking; the fight shifted. This was no longer torture of an old enemy; this was a fight with the devil. As much as they hated him, suggestion of a demonic possession meant that maybe Murdoc’s actions weren’t his... but to what degree?

It didn’t matter now. He had a family that would be devastated if they lost him, evil asshole or not.

This was life or death at this point.

The leader shoved even harder against him, growing hysterical himself. He’d finally gotten somewhere. His elbows trembled but his glare was sharp, looking directly into the iris of his enemy, trying to see the inner depths of his soul.

_“Again!”_

_“Beelzebub!”_ Murdoc repeated, sinking his claws deep into the wound on his side again, trying to rip out red meat. They dug and gouged and caked flesh on their undersides; he was becoming erratic, and now it seemed as if he didn’t want to escape but rather kill himself. His chapped lips tasted of death and it wasn’t enough. He wanted to _experience_ it. _“Fuck!_ You don’t let up!”

The Cloud noted of his unhinged mutilation, but nobody was brave enough to go near him to slip his arm all the way back under the chain. He had slipped his shoulder out by now, allowing him more room to scratch. He could reach his belly now, scritching at the side as if to get a feel of the skin there. It was only a matter of time before he started there too and risked disemboweling himself.

Their clocks ticked quicker.

“What are your intentions with this lamb of God?” The priest interrogated, keeping the Bible in its place. Murdoc’s body twisted and put stress on the chains, threatening to snap them as he tensed and moaned in fury.

“Kids making deals with Satan are so fuckin’ common any more!” Beelzebub bit his host’s teeth, groaning so loudly it made his voice give out. “But this one was desperate. Had a lot of shit he wanted, yeah? So I got it for him. Sold his soul to me, so I took it. It was an exchange. Simple as that-- _fuuuck!”_ He gagged again, spitting up blood instead. He weakly coughed it onto his collarbone, skin slippery. He gave a grin, teeth caked with red, and between his wild hair and rabid eyes, he looked too far gone for salvation. Murdoc Niccals was dead.

“Now... get that _fucking_ Bible _off of me!”_ Beelzebub barked, Murdoc’s heart hammering hard against his ribcage. Any harder and it would explode.

That was the plan.

The priest focused in on the man’s eyes, finally starting to tune out the fact that up to his forearms, bodily fluid covered his skin and made it itch.

“So you are Beelzebub, one of the seven princes of Hell, demon of gluttony, and Lord of the Flies,” The leader identified, Beelzebub convulsing under him. “You drive wedges between friends and family and create disorder for the sake of doing it.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re here right now,” Beelzebub cackled, wincing involuntarily as he dug Murdoc’s claws deep into his belly, raking them towards the middle of his palm. Hot stings of pain shot up his spine. He felt flesh lift under his fingers and peel back.

“Have you nothing better to do than possess this man?” The leader lifted the Bible, Beelzebub gasping in relief and distracting him enough to have him pull away his hand from his stomach.

“Listen here, you snot-nosed cunt,” Beelzebub spat, suddenly becoming ultra-sensitive to the smell of his ammonia-drenched chest, crinkling his nose and coughing. “This fucking rat signed a contract in his blood. Conjured me and said that life was kicking him in the balls and needed some help. So I helped him! But where I come from, a deal’s a deal and I won’t get skimped out on my _fucking_ promises _!”_

The priest went to put a hand on Murdoc’s forehead to pray over him, but Beelzebub snapped his head back and bore his teeth, biting at the man and nearly catching him. The Cloud raised their weapons and aimed them, stepping closer and on edge in preparation to shoot. Beelzebub just laughed amusedly, lolling his host’s head back and forth to taunt his captors.

“Go ahead,” he rasped, throat really torn up and weak, “Shoot! He’s suicidal anyway and I can’t feel anything. You don’t kill _me_ by doing that, but if you blow a hole right through his head, you’ll rid us both of a burden.”

The leader frowned, wiping his hand on his pants even though he wasn’t bitten. This demon was a tough one. But they’d have to be tougher. He folded his hands together and sandwiched the cross between them, closing his eyes and pressing his lips against his skin.

“May Thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us as great as our hope in Thee,” he prayed, Beelzebub spitting and wolf-whistling and drooling to distract him. The Cloud shifted their weight, still wielding their weapons, watching their leader intently. “We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies, and sects.”

Beelzebub arched his back and growled, belly flexing again, but nothing rose up his throat. There was nothing left.

“In the Name and by the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ, may you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God...” The leader opened his eyes, taking a step towards the possessed man. He saw sadness and pain and fear from underneath the thick skin Murdoc bore; he gripped the cross tighter and felt his voice shake with intensity. “...and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the Precious Blood of the Divine Lamb.”

 _“Fucking stop!”_ Beelzebub demanded, claws gouging deep into the tummy of his host, the Cloud flinching around him in reflective pain as he ripped forward on the free piece of flesh, attempting to rip it clean off. In panic, a Cloud member dropped his gun and lunged for Murdoc’s wrist, shoving it against his side and digging his nails into the skin just to provide discomfort to prevent him from moving again. Beelzebub snapped his neck to glare at the man and let out a roar of pure fury, foam dripping out the corners of his mouth as he wrestled and spat and tried to take chunks out of the poor Cloud’s arm with razor teeth. The member was just far enough away for the demon to miss him, and reassurance kept his legs further away from collapsing.

“Most cunning serpent, you shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the Church, torment God's elect and sift them as wheat!” The leader stepped forward again, dangerously close to the man, but choosing to sacrifice some of his flesh if it meant he could save him. Beelzebub sunk his nails in Murdoc’s sides instead, beginning to slice him up there, too. His belly was a mess, though, and thick blood pooled on his skin, spilling over his sides quickly. The Cloud member attempted to grab his fingers to hold them still, but when he felt the claws dig into his knuckles instead, he whipped his hand back and decided to just let him go. As long as he wasn’t disemboweling himself, it was probably fine.

“The Most High God commands you, He with whom, in your great insolence, you still claim to be equal.” The priest unclasped his hands and let the cross dangle by the chain around his fingers, inches above Beelzebub’s nose. The demon opened his mouth to argue, so he could correct the fuckin bastard and inform him that he _was_ God--that he was always God and they would succumb to him--but his voice was unable to come out. Instead, he felt bubbling at the bottom of his esophagus; nothing like vomit, but instead flame. Beelzebub gurgled as his muscles weakened, feeling a fire spread through his throat. The priest leant over the demon and pressed his hands against the sides of Murdoc’s face, letting the cross dangle against his cheek. Beelzebub screeched, wrestling the man holding his head and the one holding his arm, but he couldn’t shake them.

 _“God the Father commands you!”_ The leader shrieked, clamping harder onto Murdoc’s skull. The Cloud leant closer.

Beelzebub belched, the flame shooting up his throat and burning his nostrils. He screamed, tongue flitting around in his mouth and red eye frantic. The demon couldn’t fight them.

 _“God the Son commands you!”_ He kept on, staring directly into the center of the cross burned into Murdoc’s forehead. The Cloud rose their weapons higher.

Beelzebub gurgled some more, his insides coated with gasoline. No matter how hard he swallowed, the flame just worsened, and it was as if his lungs closed off; his airway was completely shut. Sweat poured down the back of his neck and he croaked for air, losing feeling in his legs.

 _“God the Holy Ghost commands you!”_ The man felt tears slide out of his eyes, dripping onto the poor soul below him. He gripped Murdoc’s head as tightly as he could, drawing the demon out. He was going to be saved.

Beelzebub began to tremble, the numbness spreading to his middle. His eyes rolled in the back of his head and he began to foam at the mouth again, but this time, they never rolled forward.

The Cloud watched closely as their leader sobbed over the possessed, who was seizing underneath him, losing the upper hand he had held for so long. The priest snapped at one of the Cloud members to bring the holy water that was sitting on the tray a few feet away, and it was hastily brought to him. He dipped his thumb in the dish, and bringing his hand up, he pressed it against the cross in Murdoc’s skin. The demon hissed in agony and thrashed as his skin began to burn again, blistering immediately underneath the leader’s finger.

_“Christ, God’s Word made flesh, commands you!”_

Beelzebub thrashed harder, and more confident in their fearless leader, more Clouds threw themselves forward to hold him in place, his skin boiling hot at the touch.

 _“The sacred Sign of the Cross commands you, as does also the power of the mysteries of the_ _Christian_ _Faith!”_

Beelzebub made a noise like a death rattle, whites of his eyes still rolled and bloodshot. The hands of the Cloud were like cinderblocks crushing his bones, his body aching where they shoved him down onto the cold metal table.

 _“The glorious Mother of God, the Virgin Mary, commands you; she who by her_ _humility_ _and from the first moment of her_ _Immaculate Conception_ _crushed your proud head!”_

The leader readjusted his hands to crush Murdoc’s even harder, deciding that his grip still wasn’t strong enough. With the rest of the Cloud crowded around the Lamb’s body and holding him still, the priest climbed on top of the table and straddled Beelzebub, hunching over his face and nearly shoving their foreheads together. He still sobbed for him, staring directly into where his pupils should’ve been, searching for his soul that was buried deep down; _somewhere._ He just had to pull it out.

 _“The faith_ _of the holy Apostles_ _Peter and Paul, and of the other_ _Apostles_ _commands you!”_

Underneath the choking, the priest heard a noise from the bottom of Murdoc’s throat. His serpent tongue lolled out of his lips, the top coated in a sickly yellow from his thirst. Everything inside his mouth was bone dry. The noise surfaced again, only this time, it sounded more like a cry. His face remained unchanged--mouth still wide open and his eyes still way back in his head--but it was definitely there. The priest steadied his grip on the cross and pressed it hard against Murdoc’s breastbone, the demon no longer screaming at the contact.

 _“The blood of the Martyrs and the pious_ _intercession_ _of all the Saints command you!”_

Murdoc Alphonce Niccals’ belly was swollen where his nails clawed deep into the flesh there. His shirt was torn up from the frantic slashing and scratching; the blood gushing from his wounds was beginning to slow, at least. The skin there grew pale from the drainage. The crying in his throat grew louder and tears spilled from his eyes. The priest grew more hysteric at the sight, terrified and excited and melancholy all at the same time.

 _“Thus, cursed dragon, and_ you _, diabolical legions, we adjure you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God!”_ Murdoc Niccals began to sob with his eyes rolled back and his mouth locked open, and the Cloud held on the tightest they had yet, despite the fact that their leader had him straddled enough to hold him still. His chest heaved as he was able to suck in breath again; his fingers flexed and cracked as he put stress on their joints. He didn’t claw at his stomach.

_“We adjure you by God to stop deceiving human creatures and pouring out to them the poison of eternal damnation; stop harming the Church and hindering her liberty!”_

The priest dipped his middle finger into the holy water again and held his breath. It was all or nothing at this point.

He sat upright, placing his finger at the center of Murdoc’s forehead. Swallowing hard, he moved the finger to his chest.

_“Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation!”_

He then pulled his hands to both shoulders, marking the man with the sign of the cross. The vessel arched under him, and all at once, Murdoc’s chained arms busted through the metal. The Clouds’ grips on him were a failure, because he pulled his hands to his head with ease and lodged them in his greasy hair, pulse beating against the skin of his neck.

The priest folded his hands, leaning back down to ensure his prayer was directly over the heart of the possessed. The still room was windy with emotion.

_ “Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste your vineyard! Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant, so he may no longer hold captive this person!” _

The leader screamed at the top of his lungs.

_“Satan, leave this man!”_

Murdoc’s jaw nearly unhinged when he opened it even more, gasped deeply for oxygen, and let out such an ear-splitting scream that the Cloud stumbled back with their hands clamped over their own. His eyes rolled back forward and steadied on the ceiling, body trembling with fear as he screamed and screamed, sucking in more breaths when the previous would run out.

Tears flowed down his cheeks and his face smeared with blood from his tummy and cross burn on his forehead. He tugged on his hair so hard that he managed to rip a chunk out. The priest remained hunched over Murdoc’s body, mouthing a prayer over and over again. Murdoc’s screams faded into sobs, and his hands shifted from his hair to his eyes, covering them to hide his vulnerability from his enemies. He couldn’t remember what happened. He couldn’t remember what happened. But his stomach felt like it was on fire and so did his throat and nostrils and sinuses and he felt tortured.

A crack split the air and Murdoc saw an explosion a foot away from his face; the blood and matter rained down and the now-headless body of the leader fell limp to the side of the table, sliding off onto the floor.

Murdoc stayed in place even though the Cloud let him go immediately, reaching for their weapons.

He quietly eased himself through the hyperventilation as he wiped his lips of the blood, ignoring the gunshots that fired off around him, more and more Clouds falling to the ground, lifeless.

He ignored it when the Cloud decided it would be best to flee the gunman, scattering throughout the warehouse in search of refuge from the outside. He closed his eyes, longing for sleep.

He ignored it when he saw figures rush across the room and do a sweep, making sure no one else remained.

He couldn’t ignore it, however, when he felt calloused hands tap his cheeks; a voice called to him through the chaos.

 _“Murdoc!”_ Noodle slapped him again, only harder this time, trying to do anything to wake him up. Her voice cracked and Murdoc heard it thicken. “Oh God, Russel, he’s dead, he’s dead and he’s gone, they’ve _killed_ him-- _look at his stomach--!”_

He felt much bigger hands shove his head to the side, then grab hold of his chin and keep his head upright. “Relax, baby, look, he’s breathing. He’s not dead,” Russel responded, Noodle already beginning to mourn. Murdoc opened his eyes with his remaining strength, seeing the two of them in front of him doing as much for him as a glass of water would have. Murdoc whimpered out of pure love and admiration, reaching for the both of them, his cross in his forehead burning in the cool air. He heard an engine outside.

“I’m alive,” he rasped, the ammonia having torn up his throat, “Don’t worry. Mudsy’s not hurt. Just s-shook up as all, love.”

Both Noodle and Russel threw their arms around him, squeezing him too tight for the pain he was in. He wheezed, and Russel pulled Noodle off of him, immediately going for the chains around his legs.

“Oh God, thank God,” Russel breathed, Noodle raising her gun again and scanning the room for any sneak attacks. “Come on Muds, we’re gettin’ you out of here, we’ve got you...”

Busting through the chains, Murdoc was officially free for the first time in hours. Russel slumped him over his shoulder and Noodle followed closely behind him as they bolted for the door, eager to be alone again.

2D sat in the front seat of a beat-up rental car, gnawing on his nails and hunkering in his seat when he saw Russel come barreling out with their bassist thrown over him like a rag doll. The drummer tore open the back door and tried his best to be gentle, but wound up nearly tossing Murdoc in, Noodle running to the other side and getting in that way. Russel took shotgun.

“Floor it, ‘D!” Russel barked when 2D froze in shock, tires squealing as they burned rubber out of an abandoned dirt lot, quickly leaving behind the warehouse.

Murdoc’s head smacked against the window in fatigue and his eyelids fluttered, his belly still bleeding. Noodle held up pajamas to the gouges, using them as bandages since they hadn’t really known what to anticipate. They quickly soaked the blood. She fought back tears.

Now that they were safe, Russel’s tea kettle boiled over and he slammed a fist on the dash, startling 2D enough to make him jerk the wheel a bit to the right before correcting himself.

“What the _fuck_ did I tell you?!” Russel snapped, whirling around to glare at Murdoc in the backseat. His normally-straight raven hair was curly and tousled, caked with blood and vomit and any other liquid he could think of.

“Did I NOT say that if you went out you’d get fucking attacked? Did I not say it?!”

“You did,” Murdoc croaked in confirmation. He smelled of ammonia and sour puke.

“Right,” Russel felt a vein in his temple throb, “So why the fuck did you?! We could’ve almost lost you, Murdoc! The fuck, man?--”

“--Please just leave me alone,” Murdoc begged quietly, his eye sore. He sought for Noodle’s hand, holding it when she placed it in his, letting him use her as an anchor to reality. She readjusted the pajamas, noting the bruising already beginning to form around his stomach.

Russel scoffed, turning all the way around, looking at Murdoc in disbelief. “ _Leave_ you _alone?!_ You almost _died! Do you not realize how serious that is?”_

“Please, Russel, I’m tired,” Murdoc pleaded, exhausted from struggling, though he didn’t know this. Russel opened his mouth to argue, but Noodle gasped, drawing her face closer to Murdoc’s hand.

“Murdoc! Your skin,” She pointed out, and he could feel 2D’s orbs for eyes watching them from the rearview. Murdoc glanced down and his jaw fell.

His skin was blossoming into a beautiful tan. The green was fading like colored dye in water; his skin was restoring to his Romani and Cuban tone.

Even Russel stopped to marvel at it, all four of them unsure what was happening.

Murdoc’s eyes investigated in wonder, brushing a hand over the converting one. His entire body was being drained of the green. He hadn’t noticed then, but Noodle would point out later that night that his red eye was gone too.

“What the fuck, man...?” Russel breathed.

A huge weight was lifted off of Murdoc’s shoulders.

He didn’t know what that was, but he couldn’t help but genuinely smile, tightening his grip around Noodle’s hand.

The sunshine was a bit brighter that morning.

He’d listened to Russel nag him the whole way back, and he’d listened to Russel nag him when he gave them the directions to the club, and he’d listened to Russel nag when he saw the condition Stylo was in (but she was there, thank God): windows smashed in, robbed of any sort of valuables in her cabin (nothing but a lighter and a carton of Lucky Lungs), and spray painted all over her body with red paint. (Russel nearly had an aneurysm over  _ that  _ one, Murdoc recalled later.)

“It’s just ‘cause he loves you,” 2D reasoned on the way back to the hotel, driving with Stylo’s hazards on and doing about 20 under the limit. Russel had insisted that they leave it, but both Noodle and Stu had gotten upset because of all the work Murdoc had put into the damned thing. Murdoc was really indifferent, but maybe that was because he was tired.

_ “Stuart Pot, the goddamn hood is smokin’!” _

_ Stu cast an unimpressed look over at the Camaro’s front, almost to the magnitude of an eyeroll. Murdoc leant against the car, half-lidded eyes and slouched shoulders, Noodle’s bright, fuzzy pajama pants tied around his middle (successfully, finally). He’d spit up bloody pumps of ammonia every once and awhile on the way back, but it was only a mouthful that he could spit out the window easily. He blinked. Stu looked back over at Russel. _

_ “That’s normal.” _

_ “Normal?” Russel pulled a hand down his cheek and Murdoc hiccuped, mindlessly fussing with the cute ribbon drawstrings of his makeshift gauze. He let his claws scratch contently at the cotton instead of his flesh. He really needed stitches, but he insisted he was fine; nothing they couldn’t fix themselves.  _

_ Stuart blinked too. “Yeah.” _

_ “Yeahhhhhhhh,” Murdoc quietly echoed in pure Murdoc fashion. If he had been feeling better, he probably would’ve followed it with a ‘wrow-ow-wow’ like he followed most of his sentences. _

_ Russel seemed tired. Crossing his arms, he seemed genuinely done with having to argue. Noodle went to open Stylo’s passenger door, only to find it locked. Hesitating for a second, she slinked her arm inside the broken window and pulled the lock. She grabbed Murdoc’s arm as gently as she could and ushered him inside. He was sluggish and she had to do nearly everything for him. Miraculously, Stylo’s keys had been in his pocket and were never removed. The key dug an angry red welt into his thigh, though. _

_ “Normal,” Russel repeated, Stuart stoic with honesty. “The loud-ass engine and smoking hood is normal?” _

_ Noodle had already made her way to the driver’s side and pulled the seat forward, crawling in the back. 2D, unbothered, yawned, patting a hand on the top of the car. _

_ “You’ve never driven in good old Stylo before, have you?” _

“You think so?” The satanist mumbled, elbow propped in the window and resting his head against his fist. Shards of glass dug into both his ass and his arm, but compared to the pain the adrenaline was allowing through, it was hardly anything. Both 2D and Noodle made noises of affirmation.

“Oh, yeah!” Noodle blurted out in disbelief that he’d even doubt something like that; it was a bit too loud for him though, and he winced.

“You don’t?” 2D frowned, glancing in the side mirror to watch Russel following behind in the rental. Murdoc hummed, closing his eyes. He felt Noodle gently hit his upper arm, getting him to open them again. The only reason she was along for the ride was to ensure that he stayed awake; Russel didn’t trust that 2D would do it. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of remembering--Russel figured he was too nice and would understand wanting to get some sleep. 

“Mrm, not really,” Murdoc admitted, eyes sensitive to the street lights.

“Well,” 2D began, “We all love you, Murdoc. Even if it doesn’t seem like it at times.”

“Okay,” Murdoc said.

“No, really,” Stu put a hand on Murdoc’s arm, but it quickly found its way to the wheel again like a magnet when they hit a pothole and the car veered right. “If we didn’t love you, do you think we would’ve hauled ass around this city to try and find you? We shit ourselves when we found Stylo all busted up and you were nowhere to be found.” He swallowed. “We really thought you were dead, Murdoc. More or less, we happened to stumble upon you because we were trying to find your body dumped out in the desert.”

_ That’s awfully grim,  _ Murdoc thought, but he understood exactly where they were coming from. It was a mistake to go out at all. He was actually extremely lucky he wasn’t dead.

Noodle crawled up to the center console and rested her head against the man’s shoulder, pulling her left arm over his chest like a strap. It reminded him of the chains that had bound him not even an hour before. 

“We’re so glad you’re alive,” Noodle murmured, and Murdoc rested his head against hers in return, holding her cheek with his left hand. His heart ballooned, and suddenly he found himself regretting going out even more by the second.

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” Murdoc replied, and he meant it, feeling the horizontal scars that riddled his thighs and forearms sting. If he didn’t want to live for himself, he’d live for them.

By the time they’d gotten back to the hotel, Stylo was sputtering on an empty tank of gas, and Russel was calmed down enough to be able to really assess the damage done. He’d carried the satanist back up the stairs to their room, the other two close in tow like baby ducklings. Laying Murdoc down, he’d gotten him to admit that he’d been drugged, had his tongue sliced open, and heard them talking about how he was possessed before his memory went hazy. Russel figured that the pills probably made their course, but just to be safe, he made Murdoc hunch over the toilet and vomit two more times until he could see that he literally had nothing left. They’d peeled his ruined clothes off of his battered body and cleaned the wounds on his stomach the best they could; in terms of that, Murdoc groggily insisted that they just dress them for the time being and that he’d stitch them up en route to their next venue. 

They helped bathe him and washed his hair four times over to make sure that everything was out. They helped him brush his teeth, mindful of his swollen tongue, repeating this until the ammonia taste was nearly entirely gone. He’d rested his head in 2D’s lap while Noodle blew his hair dry and Russel brushed it through. (He’d been stuck having to wear one of Noodle’s outfits--a baggy Demon Days era tour shirt and short shorts that rode uncomfortably up his ass--but they were clean.)

The three finally agreed that it would probably be okay to let him sleep around 5 pm; they laid around him after wedging him underneath the white hotel comforters, Noodle scrolling through videos of the previous night’s concert to show off. Two brown eyes peered from underneath shaggy bangs and his tan cheeks were bunched into a smile. He tried to hide it underneath the sheets, but all three draped themselves against him so easily that he figured it would be alright if he expressed some emotion for a night. He regretted his arms weren’t big enough to wrap around all of them.

“Should we call next venue and tell them we can’t make it?” 2D asked, asking no one in particular but shifting his gaze over to the bassist, trying not to focus on the pink burn in the shape of the cross on his forehead. Russel and Noodle didn’t answer, looking to Murdoc for his opinion. It  _ was  _ his band, after all, and his issue that would make them cancel in the first place.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Murdoc insisted, furrowing his eyebrows and focusing on a video taken by a fan--the bassist stepped closer to the camera and plucked strings underneath the heavy bass and flashing lights, 2D singing dreamily somewhere off-camera. A green-skinned Murdoc then bent down, stared right into the camera’s lens with his heterochromic eyes, and flicked his tongue suggestively, earning a squeal out of the fan before standing back up and trotting somewhere else. 

“How are we gonna explain this?” Noodle asked; her vagueness wasn’t misunderstood whatsoever. The clear distinction between the appearances of last night’s Murdoc and the current Murdoc would undoubtedly be questioned. This also came with the giant-ass scar on his forehead. He’d always have it, and it was quite visibly a burn.

Murdoc clicked his tongue, closing his eyes. “You lot think too much. Just relax for a night, yeah? We can worry about all this tomorrow.”

Everyone looked at him for a second before deciding he was right, laying their heads down and making sure that they were touching Murdoc somehow, whether it be his arm, knee, or hip. 

Murdoc felt tears fill the wells of his eyes again, but this time, he didn’t mind that they were there.

“Love you guys,” he choked, feeling no sort of disgust when he said that word like he used to. It was like his body had been detoxed of nearly all negative connotations; love no longer carried such an uncomfortable weight like it used to.

They all replied that they loved him too, a lot, and he fell asleep not even a minute after, smile still on his face. The cross on his forehead didn’t burn, surprisingly. It was as if it hadn’t even been branded there.

The colors of the world were much brighter just like the sun was.

He was finally free.

**Author's Note:**

> The exorcism prayer was found here: http://www.catholic.org/prayers/prayer.php?p=682
> 
> I tweaked the ending a little bit. Am I happy with it? That's debatable haha. But it's done. I'm gonna do a warm up and then really dive into my next series... if you follow my Tumblr you probably know what I'm referencing!! Can't wait to get it out here. I just wanna get a few chapters down solid and some classwork finished before I focus on it as all <3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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